The right Thing to do (first rambling)
by Aednat the Fourteenth
Summary: Today, five innocent people have died because of him. - Aramis' thoughts after he gets distracted by a baby crying and fails to take down the men who hold Samara captive. Tag for series 2, episode 3, "The Good Traitor". - Edit April 2017: This story has now been completely re-written. Check out "At First Sight" (id: 12467936) on my profile... It's the same one, but far, FAR better!


**_I was a bit surprised that Aramis didn't seem to take his share of the responsibilities after letting himself get distracted by the baby. I didn't dislike that, but wished it would have led to some development._**

 ** _So, since I like morally ambiguous heroes (and love Aramis), I thought it was a good start for a first attempt at fan fiction._**

 ** _GIGANTIC thanks to Ceallai, my beta, a.k.a. the collateral victim of my first attempt to write in English in years._**

xxx

He would have married Isabelle. He'd known it was the right thing to do.

Just before she'd died, she'd said that he was not meant to be a father. That marriage would have made them both miserable. He had vehemently disagreed.

When she had lost the baby, all those years ago, he'd cried almost every day for weeks, which had been a strange experience because tears had never come easily to him. They still didn't. He was very good at hiding his concerns behind a charming smile. He was not even sure "hiding" was the proper word. He didn't feel like he _had_ to be the cool, ever optimistic, even-tempered one, never thought about it, really. It just came naturally. Yet, at that time, any bad news, any small fright, any pink and healthy child in its mother's lap had reminded him of his loss. He'd been grieving for something he had never wanted in the first place, he had been completely alone, and felt so openly vulnerable it had seemed that everyone could see how easy it would have been to break him. He'd hated it. He had not broken, though. If anything, the whole thing had made him stronger.

And, one day, he didn't remember exactly when but he still felt how sudden it was, the pain had stopped. One day, he'd woken up, and spent his time doing whatever he had planned to do, never once thinking about Isabelle and the baby, and it was over.

Reflecting on it now, he wondered if, as deep as the wound had been, his tears had ever been about anyone but himself.

He had grieved for the happy life he had hoped for, some idea of a traditional, loving family of which he had no clue what it looked like but which had sounded appealing to his sixteen-year-old romantic self, but he believed, now, that there had been very little empathy for the other people who had been hurt.

Isabelle. Her father. His own father, who'd never been really nice to him when they had lived together, but who'd gotten him out of the brothel and given him an education, and had believed him so smart and brave that he could accomplish anything, and had searched for him when he'd fled, almost as much as he had searched for Isabelle himself, before he finally set out to send him a letter because, again, he knew that what was the right thing to do.

The old man had not even blamed him. Just answered without a hint of acidity that he was happy to read that his son was alive, and fine.

And fine he was. He'd moved on with his life so easily. And he wondered if it is because he was strong or selfish.

Today, five innocent people had died because of him.

The plan had been dangerous to begin with. Yet, it had gone perfectly well until he'd heard the baby crying. He was not sure how long he'd been distracted, but next thing he knew, Alaman was right in his line of fire, the Spaniards had realized they'd been tricked, everyone was fighting and he was doing his best to help his comrades amongst the growing panic.

And now, they didn't have the cipher, Alaman's daughter was still in danger, five bystanders had been killed and thousands more would be if Spain got the formula and declared war to France, and Porthos was hurt.

Porthos was hurt because of him.

Porthos, who has always stood by him, however foolish or reckless he was. Porthos who'd been there after Savoy, when he'd wanted to die, as much as he'd claimed otherwise. Who'd spent hours just talking to him about anything, to keep his mind off the appealing darkness. Porthos, whose face he'd woken up to this one night, when the nightmares that had been plaguing him for weeks had reached their peak. He'd felt his friend's hand holding his, heard his voice telling him that he was home, that he was alive, that he deserved to be _and don't you dare think otherwise_ , and that there was no shame in fear, and everything was fine, or would be. To his own bewilderment, he had believed him, and, at this very moment, started to heal.

It was Porthos who covered up for him the time he managed to get himself locked into Madame Beaudoin's basement for two days, until her husband had finally decided to get over his cold and go away to do whatever in Heaven he was doing for a living, Porthos who had quite literally supported him after last year's forest fire near Ivry, when he'd spent so much time treating the wounded without taking any sleep that he'd hardly been able to put one foot in front of the other, let alone ride, on their way back to the garrison, Porthos with whom he'd gotten passed-out drunk for the first time in his life, not so many years ago, because he didn't like to lose control but it felt so natural to trust when Porthos was by his side.

They had saved each other's lives on countless occasions and, now, there was a very strong possibility that Porthos would die because of him.

"What happened?"

Athos's voice. Perhaps, if he didn't answer, the older man would take his silence for an expression of sad resignation and go away.

"Aramis?"

Of course, he wouldn't.

"Tariq was in my line of fire. There was nothing I could do."

He had just lied to his friend. To his superior officer and his brother. And he told himself that it was because there was not much that could be done, now ; that he was aware that he was solely responsible for this disaster, so he had to deal with the guilt on his own, but did he feel guilty?

He was sorry, for sure. So, so sorry because he _knew_ that he was supposed to be. He knew that when you were such an experienced soldier, and one of the best shots in the country and, well, one of the good guys, and you messed up so much that five innocents died, you were supposed to be sorry.

He was ashamed.

But, even now, his dread for the Dauphin's health was his main concern.

For most people he had discussed the matter with, being a parent was an accomplishment or curse. He'd never felt either way.

He hadn't been lying to Isabelle when he'd told her that he would have been a happy man if they had gotten married. He was certain that he would have taken responsibility, and would have loved her and the child, and yes, maybe he would have missed the adventure, or all the things that could have been, but that was what being an adult was about, really. Even if he loved being a Musketeer, and defying death every day and feeling so alive for it, there were some things he missed. He had made choices, both conscious and impulsive ones, and had learned to live with all of them, never putting the blame of poor decisions on others. That was something he was quite proud of, actually.

So, he would have done his best to be a good father, even if he had not wanted the child except in his teenage fantasies. He would have settled down and learned to love a peaceful, predictable life.

And, when the baby had died, he'd learned to love the void that called for freedom, almost never thinking about what it could have been to be a father.

But then, the Dauphin had been born and it had been as if he'd never been meant to be anything else.

He couldn't describe this feeling that so many parents pretended to have even when they didn't. This complete and irrational need put another life before his own.

He had always taken care of his friends, his lovers and people in general. It was not out of pure luck that he'd become a soldier, or started to act as the garrison's unofficial medic. But _this_ was something else.

He had nothing to gain in taking care of his son.

He didn't love him because he knew it was the right thing to do. It was the last thing to do.

This love was the purest, most impulsive self-forgetting thing he had ever felt.

And yet, it was selfish again. He could laugh at the irony.

The boy had a father.

He was loved and taken care of, and he knew it, and it should have been enough.

But it was not. He wanted to be with his child. He wanted to be the one to protect him and he couldn't bear not being there to witness all the things he would learn, what would make him laugh, or cry… He couldn't bear to be at a window with a musket, trying to preserve something as trivial as peace in Europe, instead of holding him while he was sick.

Before Isabelle, before he had left, his father had wanted him to be a priest, and he had laughed at the idea. Sure, God was a big part of his life, and the prospect of serving Him was not unpleasant, but he was so adventurous, self-conscious and cheeky... Not to mention the women!

He'd thought, at the time, that the old man had just wanted to compensate for not having been there during the first years of his life. That he had hoped to give what he believed was the best to his smart, sensitive and caring son. But he wondered, now, if his father had not just _known_.

Known that yes, he was smart, sensitive and caring enough to recognize the right things to do, but lacked the instinctive compassion and modesty that made a truly good person. That a life of studying, praying and thinking could have forced him to overcome his weakness.

Maybe it had not been his own soul that his father had tried to save.

Now, he was a soldier. Death was part of his life, so that was possibly the main reason why he was not as sad as he should have been. His past actions had gotten a lot of people killed, some of them more guilty than the others, and he knew that, more than a few times, a different choice could have resulted in a happier outcome. But you had to make quick decisions amidst the heat of combat, and blaming yourself afterward was pointless.

Today, however…

These people, _they'd_ had families. Fathers and mothers who would cry for them and curse the cruel fate that had taken their loved ones, not knowing that there was no fate, just someone who could have protected them if he had wanted to, but had chosen not to even protect his best friend because he was freaking out about not-his-son.

A very young woman had been killed. Children could have been killed. The very same baby who had distracted him in the first place could have been killed.

And he didn't care enough to be devastated.

That was not the image he wanted to have of himself.

So he made a decision. He chose to.

A very conscious, very intellectualized, very moral decision.

Right now, he would keep his feelings to himself and focus on what could be done. He would work with his brothers, save Porthos, and fix this mess.

Then, when everything was over, and fine, he would talk to Athos.

He would tell him the truth.

He did not think that a confession would make him feel, let alone become, better, but it didn't matter what he felt, or what he was. What mattered was what he knew.

And he knew that it was the right thing to do.

 **FIN**

Edit: If you like this fic, I strongly suggest you read GoGirls212's **What Price, Brotherhood?** , which, along with being one of the best stories I've read on this fandom, might be read as a sequel to this one.


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